


CONSULTING DETECTIVE EXPLAINS “THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION”

by fieryphrazes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF John, Bisexual John Watson, Crushes, Deductions, Doctor John Watson, First Impressions, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Greg Lestrade is an Even Better Wingman, Inexperienced Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Roommates, Sherlock Holmes Makes Deductions, YouTube, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21844906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: WIRED taps Sherlock Holmes for their YouTube series where experts break down their processes, debunk myths about their fields, and analyze TV & movie scenes connected to their work.As you might imagine, he's a bit brutal and very brilliant.At least that's what John Watson thinks, after he discovers the video. He wonders what Holmes would deduce about him, if they ever met... but that's never going to happen, right?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea first came to me while watching [this video](https://youtu.be/NvDvESEXcgE), with dialogue coach Erik Singer critiquing actors' accents. Since then, they've expanded this series to include all kinds of experts -- including, yes, some people in law enforcement. It occurred to me that would be a great Johnlock AU... and here we are!

**CONSULTING DETECTIVE BREAKS DOWN SCENES FROM DETECTIVE MOVIES**

By WIRED

John couldn’t resist clicking – he’d always loved a good detective story.

The expert sat facing the camera, hands in prayer position in front of his mouth, face set in concentration. A clip from _Murder on the Orient Express_ played in the corner – that new one with Kenneth Branagh, John thought with disdain.

The expert rolled his eyes.

“He’s not really observing anything at all; everyone has come up to him and volunteered damning information,” the expert said with disdain, his low voice rumbling pleasantly. “That would never happen. People try to conceal their secrets, they don’t reveal them to strangers; especially when those strangers are investigating a murder.

“Next,” he said callously.

A jump cut, then:

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m a consulting detective, only one in the world. I invented the job. When the police are out of their depth – which is always – they call me.

“I’m going to analyze some scenes from detective movies and tell you everything they got wrong.”

His deep, melodic voice, his aloof superiority – John couldn’t stop watching.

Another jump cut, and a clip of _The Maltese Falcon_.

The expert – Holmes – let out a rumbly laugh.

“It’s not this hard-boiled in real life, but this one’s better,” he sat up in his chair, bracing his elbows on the arms as he leaned forward. “The process works, he’s putting things together. It’s a tangled web, this one, but the only way to solve it is to put himself in the middle. I wouldn’t recommend any professional do the same, but it’s certainly effective.” A nod of approval, of grudging respect, then:

“Bogart is… something else,” he said with a small smile.

Alarms went off in John’s head, the word _GAY???_ bouncing around inside his skull.

Next, a clip of Jimmy Stewart stalking an icy blonde. Holmes watched with an unnerving focus.

“He’s doing a horrible job following her,” he said with disgust. “He’s too close, and it’s obvious she’s purposely staying within his sight.” Holmes shook his head.

“He’s being set up, and it’s idiotic that he doesn’t know it. It’s all manufactured, designed to be picture-perfect and lure him in. That friend of his, he knows he’ll be drawn in and get emotional. That’s why it’s crucial to remain on the outside, unbiased.”

_A cold fish, then,_ John thought. He hoped it was only in work. He might… have a crush on this YouTube man. Maybe.

“You want me to say what?” Holmes asked with a frown, looking off to the side. A muffled voice off-camera replied. “Why on Earth would they do that?” Another reply, then Holmes rolled his eyes and looked back at the camera.

“’I’m contractually required to ask you to like this video, and subscribe to this channel.” He looked off camera again. “Will that do?”

John scrambled to stop the next video from auto-playing. He felt dazed as he hit replay.

* * *

**CONSULTING DETECTIVE EXPLAINS “THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION”**

By WIRED

“Apparently people watched the first video, so they wanted me to do another.”

A smile played across John’s face as he heard the annoyance in Holmes’ voice.

“This time, we’re doing something different. None of those idiotic movie clips,” he said with a sneer. “I’ll explain my method, the Science of Deduction, and demonstrate on a Wired employee.”

Here the video cut to an infographic type thing. John found himself getting impatient – he’d rather look at Holmes, with the piercing eyes and high cheekbones and that deep, rumbling voice.

Yes, definitely crushing on the YouTube man, John thought with a wince.

“The key is to observe as many details as possible,” Holmes’ voice continued over the graphics flashing on screen. “Don’t dismiss anything; it can all tell you something.

“I’m joined now by one of the drudges who works here,” Sherlock said as he popped up on the screen again, with a mousy woman next to him. “If you told me your name, I’ve already forgotten it. No, don’t bother,” – he said as she opened her mouth, presumably to tell him again – “It’s not important.”

Holmes looked her up and down quizzically.

“Have we ever met?” he asked. The woman shook her head. “Just clarifying for the viewers that I have no pre-existing knowledge of you.”

John wondered where this was going. Holmes seemed as if he were gearing up for a magic trick. On screen, he narrowed his eyes and stayed silent for a couple seconds.

“You live in a flat near Regent’s Park and bike through there on your way to work. You’re married, but not happily. No children of your own. You have children in your life though, at least one – nephew, no, niece. She’s under 9 years old. Imposter syndrome at work, although you’ve put in the work to get where you are.” Holmes took a breath after exhaling that stream of information. “Those are the things I know for sure.”

John was breathless. It was the most incredible thing he’d ever seen, watching Holmes’ keen eyes take someone apart.

“Now I’ll explain,” Holmes said in voiceover. A full-body shot of the woman appeared on screen, and circles started to appear on different parts of her clothing, starting with the hem of her pants.

“I’ve made a study of mud in different London neighborhoods. This type is found in Regent’s Park, and these splashes on the calf would only come from riding a bicycle. Flat, not house, because of the creases on her pants – those come from an industrial laundry service. If she lived in a house, she’d do her own laundry, so it must be a flat without a washing machine.

“She’s wearing a wedding ring, obviously, but it’s dingy and scratched. Indicates a lack of care. If she were the primary caregiver for a child, her clothes would have bits of baby food or grimy handprints or something. Absence of that indicates no children. However,” here Holmes paused dramatically while the graphic zoomed in on a front pocket.

“See this glitter? It’s impossible to get rid of. Not body glitter or anything from makeup, it’s a crafting glitter, often used in primary schools. So she’s spent time with a child, one she knows well enough to have sit on her lap – family member. A boy likely wouldn’t play with glitter, or would work harder to get rid of the evidence afterwards, so it must be a girl – a niece. I’m unable to tell if it’s the child of a brother or a sister, however.” Holmes sounded regretful about that part.

“On to work. I already know she works here at Wired, of course. I do not know what her job is, however. Based on the habitual indentations on her fingers, I know she spends the vast majority of her time at a computer. Her posture tells me it’s something that requires her to be close to the screen, and there’s a sheen on her glasses that indicates a blue light filter.

“The way she carries herself, it’s clear she lacks self-confidence, but everything points toward her being quite proficient at her work. I detest guessing, but in this case I am forced to make a bit of a leap. My expectation is that she works in video editing.”

John realized his mouth was open. When the indicators were all there on his computer screen, circled in yellow and explained, it seemed so simple. But it was extraordinary. Quite amazing.

The video flashed to show the woman. A voice off-camera asked, “Did he get anything wrong?”

The woman blushed intensely and shook her head before squeaking out, “No, spot on!”

John watched the rest of the video in a daze. He couldn’t help but wonder what Holmes would see in him. He scrolled all the way down and clicked on the comment box, about to type out his own message of praise, when he caught a glimpse of the other comments people had left.

“I’d let him deduce me anytime,” one read, with one of those infuriating winking emojis.

“OMG… Sherlock Holmes Top Me Challenge,” was another entry, nonsensical to John.

“WOW, what a jerk… she was standing right there when he said those nasty things… #SherlockHolmesIsOverParty”

“Please make more videos!!! Sherlock is my favorite uwu”

“You-woo?” John tried saying it out loud, puzzled about what that could possibly mean.

“This is so fake, no one could tell that stuff just by looking at someone!” John frowned, not expecting to see someone doubt Holmes, after he’d been so drawn in.

Overwhelmed by just a few comments, he sighed and closed the laptop without leaving one of his own.


	2. Chapter 2

Inspired by the detective, John dove into more YouTube videos in the series, but somehow they all fell flat. The former jewel thief turned consultant for the FBI was surprisingly boring. The MI6 disguise expert had some interesting things to say, but her voice was quite annoying. John found himself wondering – where was the drama, the mystery? He waited several weeks, rewatching Holmes’ first two videos to tide himself over – but there were no new uploads.

One morning on the tube, he could have sworn he saw him in the flesh – Holmes himself. John was riding the escalator down, and he saw a flash of dark hair and pale skin running up the up escalator, chasing a man in a dark hoodie. But as soon as John turned his head to watch their progress, they had turned a corner at the top of the stairs.

John daydreamed the whole way to work, thinking of that deep voice, the dark, curly hair, and creamy skin.

It probably wasn’t him, anyway.

* * *

A week or two later, John found himself in the park outside St. Bart’s. He sat on a bench, cane by his side, coffee cup resting on the seat next to him. He couldn’t bring himself to get on the tube yet, knowing it would be packed this time of day. May as well kill a half hour or so in the park, John thought, before heading home for another boring night at his boring flat.

He was staring off into space, feeling quite sorry for himself, when he heard shouts coming from a ways down the path. A moment later, a rather heavy man rounded the corner, running at full speed, his face bright red. John watched with interest as he passed by surprisingly quickly.

That’s when he collapsed.

John was up and by his side without a conscious thought. His responses were automatic – check for a pulse, begin CPR, identify a bystander to call 999, continue chest compressions.

It wasn’t until the paramedics arrived and took over that John stopped to breathe. He looked around, startled to see a crowd gathered – a very official-looking crowd.

A man with silver hair walked over and shook his hand.

“You’ve just saved a life,” he said. “Well – more than just his. You’ve saved at least two lives.”

John frowned in confusion.

“Sorry – who else?”

The man gestured at the swiftly departing ambulance. “That,” he said, “was our prime suspect in a kidnapping. The girl is still missing; if he’d died of a bloody heart attack today, we’d have no hope of finding her. As it is, he’s in custody and conscious and about to tell us everything.” There was a grim, determined set to the man’s face, which broke into a smile a moment later.

“I’m Greg, by the way. Greg Lestrade,” he explained. “Detective Inspector, New Scotland Yard.”

“Doctor John Watson,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand again.

“Sherlock, aren’t you going to say thank you?” Lestrade asked, looking just over John’s shoulder.

John nearly jumped out of his skin, startled to learn there was someone behind him. In the madness of the emergency, he hadn’t noticed.

The man spoke in the split-second before John turned around.

“Yes, quite impressive,” he said – and John’s brain suddenly went static.

He’d know that voice anywhere.

“Tell me, did you learn that in Afghanistan, or Iraq?” the stranger asked, his voice rumbling. John felt it down to his toes, in the tips of his fingers, as he practically floated to face him. Sherlock Holmes.

“I – “ John was almost speechless, but managed to stutter out the word “Afghanistan.”

Through it all, Holmes’ eyes were scanning John from head to foot, pausing momentarily before darting on. John wondered what he was noticing, and what it revealed to him.

John realized they were standing there staring at each other. He wondered if Holmes had the same realization. He looked away from John – _reluctantly???_ John wondered – and gestured to Lestrade.

“Well you’d better go ask him where she is,” he said, clearly exasperated.

“You’re not coming?” Lestrade sounded surprised.

“Text if you need me,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

He put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat – a big, dramatic coat, John noted – and started to walk away, whistling softly.

John stared after him for a moment, then looked over at Lestrade, who tilted his head towards Holmes.

“May as well ask,” he said with a wink. It was all the encouragement John needed, and he jogged after Holmes.

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” he asked as he caught up. Holmes looked at him sideways, keeping his face forward.

“I observe things,” he said imperiously. “I’m a –“

“Consulting detective, yes,” John interrupted. “I want to know what, specifically, said Afghanistan.”

Holmes stopped walking and turned to face John. His expression was harsh as he stared John down.

“What is it, then,” he said. “Mycroft send you? Some evil genius who wants to challenge me? Or just a fan?”

John got the sense Holmes was talking to himself more than to John, but he decided to answer anyway.

“I guess a fan? Feels weird to call it that, though,” John said with a shrug. “I’ve seen your YouTube videos.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

“Army doctor with a psychosomatic injury, working at St. Bart’s, and you spend your spare time watching YouTube videos?”

John shrugged again and smiled.

“I never could resist a detective story.”


	3. Chapter 3

Rush hour had long passed by the time John got onto the tube that night.

After he’d chased Sherlock down, John had listened, rapt, as he explained the perfectly ordinary things that told him nearly everything about John.

It had been… amazing.

Now he was on his way home, head in the clouds, staring at the business card in his hands. It didn’t seem possible, but all his senses told him it was quite real.

Printed in small, neat letters:

_Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective_

And scrawled messily below it, ink smudging just a bit:

_221B Baker St, 10am_

* * *

John arrived promptly the next morning, giving a quick knock on the door. He looked around as he waited to be let in, appraising the neighborhood. It seemed safe, or at least quiet. The café next door would be convenient. Walking over from the underground, he’d passed a Thai restaurant that had some potential.

This could be very nice, indeed.

The door opened, bringing John back to the moment at hand. It cracked just a few inches, and John saw one eye belonging to an elderly woman. He cleared his throat and smiled tightly.

“I’m supposed to meet Sherlock Holmes here,” he explained.

Immediately, the woman flung the door open.

“Well why didn’t you say so!” she said, suddenly friendly. She turned and gestured at him to follow her into the cozy hallway. “He’s running late, as usual,” she said, shaking her head fondly. “That boy will be the death of me.”

“Are you, er –“ John tried to untangle the situation in his head. “Are you related?” The woman laughed.

“Goodness, no. Although I’ve known him for years, of course. Go on up, dear,” she said, gesturing up the stairs. “He’ll show up when he pleases, so you may as well get comfortable.”

John decided to take her advice. He climbed up to the second floor and poked around a bit in the flat, opening doors and cupboards. It was certainly a vast improvement over his current flat, tucked away in a sad, remote corner of London. Here, he would be closer to work, closer to the bustle of the city, and – well – closer to Sherlock. Finally, John nodded to himself and took a seat in a threadbare armchair.

The first 20 minutes were pleasant enough. John didn’t bore easily; he could sit for a good while with his own thoughts. But he hadn’t been expecting to be stuck in his own head this morning – he was here to see Sherlock, and to discuss the possibility of being flatmates. Here. In this flat.

The next 20 minutes were occupied by anxiety.

Of course Sherlock’s realized he can’t live with me, John thought. I told him I’m a fan of his YouTube videos – as if I’m some deranged stalker, instead of someone who just Googled him a handful of times. And rewatched the videos every day for a week. And dreamed about that deep voice, speaking low and close.

John shook his head, trying in vain to knock those thoughts out.

In the last 20 minutes, John found himself getting angry. It’s one thing to bail on a friend who knows you, who understands what they’re getting into – but John was a stranger, someone who could have any number of commitments (hypothetically, of course – John had avoided all commitments since he returned home from Afghanistan). Someone who Sherlock should be trying to impress.

Well, John had hoped he was worth impressing. It certainly didn’t seem that way now, after he’d been stood up by Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Finally, Sherlock did arrive. John took one look at him, dark hair curling wildly around his face, and stood up thoughtlessly, in the process losing his grip on his phone. It clattered to the ground as John watched, helpless to break its fall.

His anger had already melted away.

Sherlock watched this play out silently, keen eyes glued to John. It made him shiver, to think what Sherlock could be observing in that moment.

His eyes narrowed, then darted around the sitting room, seeming to pause on every spot where John had loitered or poked around.

“Well?” he asked finally. “Will it do?”

John nodded, dumbfounded. He’d half convinced himself that Sherlock wasn’t coming, and that moving in together was a huge mistake, and that Sherlock had realized it.

Now that Sherlock had showed up, albeit over an hour late, John wasn’t going to educate him on that last point. He wasn’t going to miss his chance.

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. John hadn’t realized Sherlock was slouching, but now he stretched out to his full height, nodded his head crisply, and called out, “Mrs. Hudson!”

The landlady appeared in the door a moment later.

“Dr. Watson will be joining me after all,” he said to her with a smile.


	4. Chapter 4

John braced his hands on his hips and looked around in satisfaction. It had taken a few trips, but he was truly moved in – all that remained was to put his books on the shelves, his dishes in the cupboards, and his sheets on the bed.

Sherlock had lain mostly motionless on the sofa during John’s flurry of activity. He hadn’t spoken a word since their quick hello this morning – just alternated between watching John and staring at the ceiling above him.

When John began to shelve books, Sherlock leapt up and batted him away.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he said crossly.

“Is there a wrong way to put books on a shelf?” John asked. Sherlock just glowered and took the stack of books out of his hands.

“Now _you’re_ doing it wrong,” John complained. “You’re mixing them all up!”

Sherlock was darting around the bookshelf, putting books in what seemed to be a random order, tucked between his own.

“We’ll never remember whose is whose,” John rolled his eyes.

“They’re organized by topic, and alphabetically by author within that,” Sherlock explained. John shrugged.

“You’re the genius,” he said. Sherlock simply nodded and kept shelving while John moved on to the kitchen.

* * *

John’s lungs filled desperately with cold air as his hands braced against his knees, the stitch in his side already weaving into place. Sherlock sauntered up beside him. John looked up – they shared a glance, one that made John’s face grow warm and his lungs immediately revert to their breathless state.

Just as quickly, the moment passed. Lestrade pulled up alongside and ushered them into his car, scolding Sherlock about skipping paperwork. He spared a wink for John, who smiled but didn’t know quite how to respond.

* * *

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am the world’s only consulting detective, and I have been bribed to return and answer some of your tedious questions.”

John smiled off-camera. He was lurking in the shadows, ostensibly here as Sherlock’s assistant, but mostly tagging along because that’s what he did now. He followed Sherlock, wherever he wanted to go.

When they’d arrived outside the office building in a posh part of London, John had assumed there was a client – maybe the CEO of a startup tech company, or a middle-manager at a hedge fund, or something along those lines. He had not expected to stumble into Wired’s office, tucked into a small suite that barely had any daylight.

That’s how he ended up inside a makeshift studio, smiling as Sherlock gave imperious answers to questions from commenters.

The PA who had fetched Sherlock a bottle of water began chatting with John conspiratorially.

“He’s our most popular expert, you know,” she said. “People love it when he’s rude, and I think they fancy him a little bit.”

John smiled.

“Well they’re in luck, he’s rude all the time,” he told her with a wink. She blushed prettily.

“Do you think after this, you might want a tour?” she asked. John had already turned back to watch Sherlock.

“Am I single? Is that really all that occupies your feeble brains? There are much more absorbing mysteries than a stranger’s relationship status,” Sherlock said harshly. “But as it happens, no. I currently find myself… unavailable.” He finished it with a haughty sniff and tossed the slip of paper over his shoulder. John couldn’t suppress a smile.

“I think I’ll pass, thanks though,” he said, never taking his eyes from Sherlock.

When the video went live, John checked in on the comments.

“Wow, guess there really is someone out there for everyone… even freaks like you,”

read the rudest comment, right there on top.

“SHERLOCK’S TAKEN???” said another, with an emoji John could only assume was supposed to be the commenter’s mind being blown.

There seemed to be a battle brewing farther down, on whether Sherlock’s mystery partner would be a man or a woman. One commenter had even dug up an old photo from Sherlock’s school days, showing him next to some minor royal. The poster claimed that the Queen’s third-something twice removed (John struggled to follow the bloodline) had been secretly dating Sherlock since they were teenagers.

John snorted and closed his laptop.

“Sherlock, your fans are crazy,” he called out across the flat.

Sherlock hummed but didn’t look up from his microscope.

“How quickly you forget,” he said, that deep voice rumbling pleasantly, “It’s not so long ago that you were one of my ‘fans.’” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow for emphasis. He seemed to know that John was watching him, although he still hadn’t looked away from his slide.

“I confess, I watched the videos,” John said, “but I never left a comment.”

“Oh, but you thought about it.” Now Sherlock swiveled on his stool to face John, an appraising look on his face. “You struggled over what to say, how to express the unexpected feelings that I aroused. You eventually gave up.”

John’s face went scarlet. He took a deep breath, breaking eye contact briefly. Then, his shoulders set in that soldiery way they had. He seemed to make a decision.

“They weren’t unexpected,” John said in a quiet but firm voice. “I’ve almost always known I’m bisexual.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to be surprised.

“When?” he demanded. “When did you know?”

John shrugged. “I must have been 14, 15. I’ve never…” John took another deep breath. “I’ve never acted on it. But it’s always been there.” Sherlock nodded solemnly, perhaps surprised into silence, or stunned by his own bravery in turning John’s banter into a serious conversation. Into something that means something.

“Anyway, when did you know you were gay?” John asked in a lighter tone.

“I –“ Sherlock stumbled. “I just…” John stared at him.

“What, just – just now?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“That day, in the park,” he said. “I’d never reacted to anyone like that. I wasn’t sure if I could.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders with a feigned nonchalance.

“Oh, Sherlock,” breath rushed out alongside the words, giving the impression of a sigh rather than a sentence.

John was across the sitting room in record time, one hand rising to Sherlock’s cheek.

“It’s never been like this for me, either,” John whispered, as he leaned in to press a kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Never,” he promised.


End file.
